


rings pearls & all

by fluorescentgrey



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorescentgrey/pseuds/fluorescentgrey
Summary: “Does he fuck you,” said the witch.Thank all the gods they were alone in the dingy stone courtyard on the edge of the world.“Um,” said Jaskier. “To whom do you refer.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 61
Kudos: 1712
Collections: wiedźmin





	rings pearls & all

Across the fire the witch took a decidedly unwomanly quaff from her flagon of cheap ale. She had been studying Jaskier intently for several minutes and despite the long day’s ride in the fine sleeting rain her clothing and the paint on her face were pristine and bright. Could they read minds? He did not know if they could read minds. He tried to think of something boring: Home. The mountains out back of the village, mist, his mother’s herb garden, losing his virginity, learning the circle of fifths… 

“Does he fuck you,” said the witch. 

Thank all the gods they were alone in the dingy stone courtyard on the edge of the world. 

“Um,” said Jaskier. “To whom do you refer.” 

The trick was not to behave in any way like you had been taken off guard by anything she said, which was particularly challenging when she crafted everything she said for the sole purpose of taking one off guard. Getting you like a fish on a dock gawping and flapping so she could cut you through the belly. Anyway, it was a stupid and desperate question and the witch ignored it. “I cannot quite figure it out,” she said. “He does not suffer fools gladly.” 

“Maybe I am not a fool.” 

The witch laughed her summoning laugh. “Maybe.” 

They did not speak for a few minutes, and at last the witch went inside to refill her flagon, and when she returned, arranging herself once more artfully in the splintery chair as though it were a throne, Jaskier dared to hope the matter dropped. But then she said, “I have ways of getting to the truth if you do not tell me.” 

“Why are you so interested?” 

“Bard, when we first met I was hosting an orgy.” It was almost funny that she felt the need to remind him of something he was certain he could literally never forget if he tried, having been choking to death at the time. “If you could live as long as I have you’d likely find yourself seeking entertainment wherever you could get it.” 

“I believe it,” he said. “I am an entertainer.” 

The witch smiled the smile that made most men and some women want to do things for her. “Are you?” 

Gods damn it! 

“Well,” said Jaskier, “the answer to your query depends what you mean by fucking.” 

The witch blinked. “I mean does he put his cock in you.” 

This felt like what he imagined a joust or a good bout of fencing felt like: considered light blows posed to a co-sparrer only to be swiftly countered. “That is an act rather easier said than done when it comes to our mutual friend.” 

The witch made a dismissing gesture and at first Jaskier braced himself, thinking it a spell. “I have some things,” she said. “Or you could tell him to put his mouth on you.” 

_Things?_ “He isn’t one for blowjobs.” 

“His loss,” said the witch, cocking an eyebrow. “Besides I mean your asshole.” 

Jaskier sputtered. Gods but she had him like a cockroach on its back now. 

“Clean yourself well with good soap,” the witch went on. “If you stretch yourself before it will go easier.” 

“I know — gods, I know the mechanics of it.” 

“And yet you haven’t had him,” the witch mused. 

“I have had him a thousand other ways,” said Jaskier, who had let Geralt fuck his oiled thighs, his mouth, his hands; who had had Geralt himself, on a single stupefying occasion that would in all likelihood never be repeated; who had put on such a great show of writhing on Geralt’s fingers that he had hurt his back, et cetera et cetera. 

“Not this way,” said the witch. “Once you have him this way it will be to hell with all the other ways.” 

He knew, begrudgingly, that she knew from experience, having caught them _in flagrante_ in that destroyed parlor room. 

“Why do you care?” 

“I suppose I believe gifts are to be shared,” said the witch. Gods damn it if she wasn’t sometimes quite wise. 

“I can’t understand,” Jaskier admitted. “I thought.” 

“What did you think?” 

“That you and he were — well.” 

She furrowed her brow, showing a flash of the fine blue color at her eyelids like the courting feathers of some strange bird. “Bard, who the fuck do you take me for?” 

\--

In the morning he woke to find a finely sewn black velvet bag in his bedroll. The witch was gone. He was about to open the bag when Geralt came out from the inn. “Where’s Yen?” 

Jaskier fumbled the bag, clutched it against his chest, feeling the smooth, hard objects within. “She rode out in the night.” 

“Hm,” said Geralt. 

All damn day he eyed the horizon. Were their positions reversed, Jaskier was sure the witch would not have felt so jealous. 

\--

The awkwardness of the conversation with the witch was eventually worth it in extreme spades. In a remote inn, they had been smoking a fragrant local leaf, and Jaskier’s head was full of sparks and music. Downstairs someone played a lute (poorly, by Jaskier’s ear) and there was dancing. Upstairs by emberlight he pushed his bare ass back into Geralt’s big hands. 

Several hours previous, he had disappeared from the festivities to crouch before the banked fire in their empty rooms and work inside himself an object which had been given him in the witch’s velvet bag. Naked below the waist, struggling desperately, the operation had taken abundant oil and embarrassingly labored breathing. He figured he had not altogether done anything so laborious for sex since he had climbed through the Duchess Ferdinand’s highest tower window without aid of ropes. 

“Hm,” said Geralt, thumbing the flared end of the witch’s finely carven wood piece, like a chess pawn. It was a different kind of _hm_ than usual, pitched impossibly lower by a few steps. As for the wood it was quite fine, polished and lacquered, and the shine had caught the firelight in a fashion that he had seemed to Jaskier quite mesmerizing, such that he had wondered if there were a spell on it. If there was it seemed the witcher had fallen victim as well, because he did not move for a few moments, except to push his thumb against the tool again, jostling its blunt end deeper inside, for sole purposes of torture. 

Jaskier put his forehead against the lattice of his fingers upon the rough sheets. He had been hard for what felt like hours, dancing with girls, dancing with some boys, watching in the corner of his eye the smoke from the witcher’s pipe rising in the darkest corner of the pub, feeling intimately the shape of the thing inside him. 

“Take it out of me,” he said. His voice was rough. He was usually direct with Geralt in bed but this was a new acme. “And put your mouth — ”

“Yes,” said the witcher, and did. 

His beard scraped Jaskier’s arse raw, and his cock, eventually, was a monster, which Jaskier had thought he had known objectively from previous encounters with it, but which carried different symbolic and literal heft when it was stretching you open and reaching all the way inside you, like a bad dream or something, except good. He felt briefly separated or purged from the reality of himself — funny, he figured later, that a cock could do this — and cried and moaned and drooled against the blankets as though he had been stricken by some fit, until Geralt stilled him, hand at the small of his back, and put two fingers in his mouth. It was a blinding shock when he came, and Geralt kept fucking him, rocking against him in short, sharp movements, doing that _hm_ sound over and over, and Jaskier thought he came again, but he couldn’t quite tell. He felt when the witcher came — the pulsing rush deep inside, the strong body clutching his close as he spilled, the choked cry against the ringing in his ears — and that was the last thing he felt for a while, though Geralt licked his raw hole clean and put the witch’s tool back inside him again, and then they lay together in the moonlight through the window, sharing a deep exhausted sleep in which nothing stirred and there were no dreams. 

In the morning, the witcher brought him fresh fruit and a hot bath, and kissed him on the forehead when he went out to kill something, and Jaskier sat in the cool bathwater and watched the moving trees, got effervescently stoned again on that local leaf, wrote the best song he’d ever made, slept. 

\--

Half across the world again, Yennefer was at the fire out back of the least reputable bar in the county, sipping the worst conceivable ale, polishing her bloodstained sword. “Bard,” she said upon the sight of Jaskier in the door. 

“Witch.” 

She looked him up and down. “Are you well,” she said. 

“Yes. Very.” 

She flashed him a toothy, girlish smile unbefitting a woman of her ruthlessness and stature. Then she turned again to the bloody sword. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the person who sent me an anonymous ask to see if i would write geralt/jaskier, thereby forcing me to write this out of spite. the truth is that i mostly just love yennefer. thanks also to the led zeppelin song [the battle of evermore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88b0OYxdtyM) which i listened to throughout, for ensuring that this was mystical and erotic. thanks to zeppelin also for the title which is from the peerless [how many more times](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-5o2f9wzmw). "i was a young man, i couldn't resist..."


End file.
